


Silken Bonds

by MargaretKire



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Detective John Blake, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, Post-Canon, Subspace, Undercover Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-05-15 22:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14799062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire/pseuds/MargaretKire
Summary: After the events of TDKR, John and his team are on the trail of a high-ranking member of the League of Shadows who has managed to elude capture. Desperate to bring down the target before he reaches the Himalayas, John gets a lucky break when the suspect begins calling for rent boys who just so happen to match John's description.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heyitsamorette (AmoretteHD)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/gifts).



> This work is a gift for heyitsamorette, who submitted the following prompt:
> 
> On his first stealth/spy mission in Eastern Europe, John is out of his element and the only familiar face is Bane, and he never expected to see him here. He didn't even know Bane was involved in this case. But can he trust Bane?
> 
> This prompt was very fun to explore. Thank you, luv!
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my two dear friends, Harlanhardway and blakesparkles for their invaluable cheerleading.
> 
> *Please note: This story contains an element of dubcon because of John's undercover work.

“My friend, it is not an arduous task that I bequeath, for our order knows only silken bonds. To be gentle and patient, to care for the riches of the mind, to preside in wisdom and secrecy while the storm rages without — it will all be very pleasantly simple for you, and you will doubtless find great happiness.”

― James Hilton, _Lost Horizon_

 

John kept fiddling with his hair in the mirror, waiting for the local officer to come collect him from his hotel room. He told himself that he was not playing with his hair because he was nervous, but rather, because he’d never in his life worn it this long. That, at least, was true. But he couldn’t play a callboy with a cop’s haircut.

He’d had several months to get into character, which he was grateful for now, though at the time he’d gone nearly mad with impatience. There had been delay after delay as they tracked their man all throughout Europe. He was always a step ahead.

It had all been worth it, John reminded himself, tugging at the tight T-shirt he wore as part of his cover. They finally had a solid lead in Kiev. They had theorized that their man was trying to make his way back to the League of Shadows, possibly to aide in the purge of another ‘corrupt’ city.

John settled himself at the foot of his hotel bed, a trendy sweatshirt for his disguise over one arm. All his ID and papers were with his partner, in the safe in his own hotel room across town, just in case their man got suspicious and had a goon search his room. He was even booked under a fake name. No one knew that he was, in fact, John Blake of the Gotham City police, except for his partner and a few key officials.

If this guy led them to the League of Shadows, it would be worth the hundreds of hours John had poured into this manhunt. It would be worth the favors he’d cashed in and the new favors he owed, the sleepless nights, the chases that led nowhere but abandoned safe houses.

There was a light tap on the door and John surged to his feet. It was his ride to his appointment, a man he’d met briefly at the station earlier that afternoon. They nodded at one another and the officer, in plainclothes, led him down to the waiting car.

John was finally going to see the face of the man who’d haunted his dreams for months. One of Talia and Bane’s henchmen. Someone high up in rank, if their sources were to be trusted. None of the man’s code names had led them anywhere, and they still didn’t know exactly who they were following. John just knew one thing: he was going to stop this man. There would never be another Gotham, full of terrified children waiting day by day to die in a fiery blast. The fear in the St. Swithin’s boys’ faces, their terrified eyes in the bus windows when the cops on the bridge refused to let them drive to safety... John clenched his jaw in rage at the memory as he slipped into the passenger seat.

The officer started the small car and pulled out into the late evening traffic, briefing John as they drove. “Mr. Shadow,” the cop began, pronouncing the silly codename for their man in heavily accented English, “contacted an agency twenty minutes ago and asked for a callboy fitting your description.”

John nodded. This had been the man’s pattern over the past several months. They hadn’t received any intel on this quirk of their target until they had been tailing him closely through France. Word came in of an escort service being called, and a ‘young man of slight build with dark hair and fair skin’ had been requested.

They located the escort three days later, alive and unharmed, paying off his student debt with a sudden influx of cash. He claimed not to remember anything about his client or have any information for the police. After several hours of questioning, they were forced to let him go.

It was a pattern that repeated itself over the coming two months. Just before their target left his latest hideout, he would call for a rent boy, always the same description, and leave them with a large tip and an obvious threat of death if they breathed a word about him. He must have been convincing, because the men never cracked.

John buried his hands in the hoodie’s fleece-lined pockets. It was cold, the air hinting of rain. It felt odd to have nothing in his pockets except a wallet containing his fake Ukrainian ID and 20 hryven. Plus a few condoms and lube packets. For authenticity.

He went over the drop-off and pick-up procedure with the officer, and then John was stepping out of the car and heading down into the Kiev Metro. A few stops later, he ascended to the surface once more, and waited in the exact spot specified over the phone. He looked around for the underling that was supposed to collect him, making sure to fidget the way he might if this was really his job and he was waiting for his ‘date’ to show up.

After about five minutes, a woman stepped out from where she had been leaning against the wall across from him, beckoning to him. John started forward as though surprised, though he had clocked her as the henchman the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

They went back down into the metro, taking a different train a few more stops, before emerging into the open once again. She remained silent, motioning for him to follow her with the air of someone sent out to do a particularly annoying errand. She led him to a car, settling into the driver’s seat and leaning over to unlock the passenger side door for John. He slipped in and looked at her in what he hoped was a naturally nervous way. It wasn’t hard to fake. She just clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes, then focused on driving, ignoring her passenger completely.

John’s anxiety heightened as they drove east, past the city border. He began to wonder if he had been made, if his driver was taking him someplace out-of-the-way to put a bullet in his head. He squirmed in his seat, not having to try as hard to look like a concerned escort as he had earlier. He shot her looks out of the corner of his eyes as she continued to ignore him completely.

Finally, more than fifty minutes after he’d gotten in the car, the woman pulled off the main road, speeding along the dark backroads until there weren’t any lights visible anywhere among the trees. The car tires made popping noises as they slowed to drive up a twisting, gravel driveway, small stones pinging off the undercarriage. They came to a halt and John tensed. This was it. If she was going to shoot him, she’d do it now. He readied himself, preparing to gain control of the gun, should she produce one from her coat.

Instead, she simply got out of the car and walked around to his side, knocking irritably on his window when he didn’t follow immediately. John swallowed his nerves, and climbed out of the car. He trailed behind her as she wound down a path through tall trees, the damp stones reflecting from the path as she pulled out a flashlight to guide their way. A few minutes of walking and John was shivering in his inadequate clothes. The soft, tight jeans and slip-on sneakers had been a good choice for Kiev, where he hadn’t expected to be outside more than a few minutes, let alone be marched through the woods in the rain.

His teeth were chattering by the time they rounded a bend in the path and a house appeared, the porch light on, casting a warm glow in the darkness. John shivered as he was waved inside the front door, his babysitter shooting him a small smirk before closing the door on him. He assumed she would be staying to stand guard, but he heard her footsteps creak back down the porch stairs and he could see her through the window, heading back in the direction of the car.

John turned toward to the interior of the house. It looked like a very normal, if somewhat wealthy, residence. There was nothing opulent about the furnishings or the design, but it was a large dwelling, well-kept and clean. Ordinary. Much too normal for the nightmare suddenly towering in the hallway in front of him.

John’s mind skittered over itself, as if trying to escape. His thoughts grinding to a halt. The man before him, surrounded by normal sets of furniture and paintings of flowers and dogs, looked so out of place that John wondered if he were still asleep and dreaming. The man was massive, filling up the entire doorway, his arms above his head leaning on the beam. John would have said that he was smirking down at him, except for the fact that he couldn’t see his mouth. His whole lower face was covered by a heavy mask, his breath pulling in through the vocoder before he spoke.

“What is your name?” he asked. John knew that voice. All of Gotham knew that voice. But it was impossible. Bane was dead. He’d seen the corpse, a large man in a mask, burned nearly unrecognizable by the fire that had raged in the city center shortly after Batman’s suicide flight into the bay. The experts had declared that the remains had belonged to Bane.

“Your name?” Bane repeated. It could be no one else.

“Stas,” John said, remembering his cover and his purpose, despite the hammering of his heart.

“Stas,” Bane repeated, the name crackling through the mask. “Do you speak English, Stas?”

“Yes,” John said. Thank god anyone in his position would be expected to be shell-shocked. His fumbling could be easily excused as a nervous callboy presented with a startling employer. Not to mention that they were out in the middle of the woods, alone, and a real rent boy would have been terrified. John swallowed, his throat constricting, pushing back the panic, remembering his mission. It remained the same; was even more important now that he knew who their quarry actually was.

Bane’s eyes flashed to the movement of John’s throat, then met his eyes again. “Please remove your clothing, Stas,” Bane said, his voice calm, though his eyes continued to bore into John’s. He was so much more intimidating in person, in this normal house, than he ever had been on the TV, even threatening Gotham with imminent destruction. Whoever they had planted as his body hadn’t been nearly massive enough, John thought, his mind slithering sideways away from Bane’s command, even as his hands went to the zipper of his hoodie.

He didn’t move very fast, but he also didn’t draw it out. Maybe a real callboy would have done a strip tease for their client but, not only was John way too nervous to try such a thing, Bane’s request had been to remove his clothing, and it had the tone of him wanting it done efficiently, not necessarily seductively.

“Very good,” the surreal voice said, once John was down to his underwear, which were also part of the costume. They weren’t particularly sexy, just black boxer briefs, but they were tight and meant to show off his body.

Planning this outfit, he hadn’t been sure if he’d ever get this far. It had all depended on a variety of factors that John couldn’t control: whether the target would be alone with him, whether he’d be armed. Never once had John planned on being alone with Bane. He could have overpowered or outsmarted almost any other man. But not this man. Not the Scourge of Gotham.

“The bedroom is this way,” Bane said, moving only marginally to the side to let John pass. John took a deep breath, every muscle tense.

He had always known, given the nature of his cover, that he might have to go through with the bluff and have sex with the target. He was no blushing virgin, and he’d slept with plenty of men. No one very recently, it was true. While Gotham had been held hostage and, later, during his pursuit of their target across Europe, there had been no time for indulging in something as basic as sex. He had done a bit of prep on himself, figuring that would be a normal thing to expect from a callboy, but that had been in anticipation of a normal-sized man.

John stepped forward, obeying Bane’s implied order that he should walk toward the bedroom. He had to squeeze past Bane’s body, unyielding as he slid by, barely enough room for John to wiggle past him. He was warm. John realized just then how cold he was, skin and hair damp from the rain, wearing nothing but his underwear. He made it past Bane and looked over his shoulder, hoping that he was still enough in character that Bane wouldn’t suspect anything was amiss.

“The last door,” Bane said, and John walked forward into the dim corridor, heading for the door he could just make out down at the far end of the hallway. Except for the porch light and the lights in the living room near the entryway, the house was completely dark. John could feel, as well as hear, Bane’s bulk shifting behind him as he followed him down the hall.

He made it to the last door, his heart jackrabbiting, and to his dismay, he saw that this room, too, was dark. The only light was from the large windows looking out onto a small yard ringed by tall trees. Everything was lit gray and blue, shapes blurring but not quite invisible as his eyes adjusted.

He spun around as he heard the click of the bedroom door closing. The full weight of his situation hit him just then. He was almost naked, locked alone in a bedroom with the Terror of Gotham, and no one knew where he was. This was his mission, he’d pushed for this, wanting to find the League of Shadows so desperately that he would probably die for his determination.

So be it, he thought, his resolve hardening. He would find out all he could, and if he got away alive, then he would use that knowledge. If not, then… well, he had tried. He may not be Bruce Wayne, may not be that strong or that tenacious, but he would go out fighting like his hero, if it came to that. For now, he had a role to play.

“Where do you want me?” he asked, his accent carefully rehearsed ahead of time. If asked, he would say that he had gone to an American school, but was living back with his family, paying off his loans as a callboy. He didn’t really expect to be asked.

Bane was looking at him. John could see his dark eyes glinting in the pale light from the windows, his head tilting to one side as he seemed to consider his answer. He wondered how well he could see him. Didn’t they say he had better night vision than even Batman himself?

“On the bed,” Bane said, after nearly a minute had passed. “On your hands and knees.”

John moved forward shakily, not wanting to show an abnormal amount of reluctance, though any callboy in this situation would be worried, surely? He kept reminding himself that he just needed to make it out of this situation alive. That was it. That was the goal. Bane hadn’t killed a single one of the men he’d had delivered to him. None of them had even had any visible marks.

He would perform as well as possible, make Bane as happy as possible. Bane would bribe him with a large tip and threaten him not to tell anyone. Then he’d be driven back to the city. He’d report in immediately. He’d call Jim Gordon in Gotham and let him know the unthinkable: Bane was alive. He was alive and he was heading for the League of Shadows.

John got on the bed, still in his underwear, as Bane had yet to tell him to take them off, and he was pretty sure that he was supposed to wait for Bane to instruct him before he did anything. This game was oddly familiar. Too familiar. He ignored the flair of heat in his stomach as he adjusted his weight on his elbows in the middle of the large bed.

John had gotten on the mattress facing away from Bane. All his instincts told him that it was a suicidal thing to do, but a callboy would have taken this position. He knew that Bane had meant for him to be facing the headboard. He repressed the urge to swing back around when he heard Bane moving, nearly silent in the dark room. The feeble light from the windows blinked in and out as Bane walked in front of them, coming around to the side of the bed. The mattress dipped under the weight of one heavy knee. Bane was close, his breath rasping through the mask, heat radiating from his fully-clothed body.

John’s breath hitched and caught in his lungs. He looked over his shoulder, taking in the unmoving form, one knee making a small valley on the bed, the other foot still firmly planted on the floor. His eyes raked over John’s body. John shivered involuntarily at the scrutiny, and Bane’s eyes flashed up and caught his gaze. John dropped his head forward, staring at the duvet below him, his breath coming faster than before, his mind slowing, slipping sideways…

No. He absolutely could _not_ lose himself right now. This was the _worst_ time and place to slip into subspace. Bane hadn’t even touched him yet and he was feeling all the signs of going under. He tried to focus, tried to remember who Bane was, why he was here. This man was a murderer. He’d killed men with his bare hands-

A huge, warm palm was placed on John’s back, right between his shoulder blades. Gently, slowly, it exerted pressure, until John realized that he was meant to rest his weight on his chest instead of his elbows. He sunk down, his arms slipping to the sides, until he was pinned to the bed by the weight of Bane’s hand.

Several minutes passed, during which John fought against slipping under all the way, trying desperately to keep his wits about him. He knew this feeling. He had experienced it with a few very talented doms before, but it had never happened this quickly, and never when he didn’t trust the man dominating him. This simply shouldn’t be happening.

Bane waited a moment longer, then smoothed his broad palm down the curve of John’s spine. “Do you want this?” Bane asked, and again John’s mind raced, looking for words he couldn’t find. He was supposed to be a prostitute. Did it matter if he wanted this? Was Bane giving him a chance to back out?

“Yes.”

“Are you sure of your answer?” Bane asked.

“Yes,” John said again, trembling.

“Beautiful,” he said, in what must pass for a whisper with the vocoder. John shivered again and Bane made a shushing noise. It was menacing through the grill of the mask. “Don’t move,” Bane said, before withdrawing from the bed.

John stayed in place, straining to hear what Bane was doing. He heard noises he couldn’t place, and then Bane was back at the side of the bed. John heard something metallic being set on the bedside table. A gun? It hadn’t sounded right…

The mattress dipped again and then two hands were running up John’s flanks, brushing his skin and making him break out in goose flesh. Bane must have taken off his shirt, because, as he draped himself over John’s back, he felt the warmth of bare flesh. Bane enveloped him, John’s body easily fitting in the space beneath.

John gasped when he felt a mouth at his neck, hot and wet. The mask. He’d taken off the mask. Would he be weaker like this? Somehow vulnerable? John moved against him to test his strength against Bane’s. It was like pushing against a brick wall. Bane grunted at him and gathered his wrists in one hand, much too easily, then stretched John’s arms forward, above his head, his upper body pulled taught as a bowstring under the massive man.

He had no leverage like this, no way to move away or take any sort of control. He moaned when he realized how compromised he was. This man could break him, but he wasn’t. Neither was he allowing him an inch of freedom. He was caught. Trapped and at Bane’s mercy. He should be terrified. A normal person would be terrified.

The mouth descended again, warm, uneven. John could tell he’d been injured, he could feel the jagged shape of Bane’s lips. John squirmed against the hold on his wrists, unable to budge. Bane chuckled darkly against his nape. His voice all gravel and velvet. So it wasn’t just the mask that made him sound that way. John slumped, not done fighting, not entirely, but biding his time. Saving his strength.

Bane went back to kissing him, almost reverently, John thought, confused. He was being so tender in his attention, still gripping him firmly around the wrists but not hurting him. Bane gently took the tendon at the side of his throat between his teeth, and John moaned. Ashamed, for so many reasons, he hid his face against his arm, burning up with self-loathing. If he had come to Bane in any other way than posing as a sex worker, the man wouldn’t have been able to exploit him. Kill him, maim him- yes. But not break him. Not like this.

It was almost as if Bane _knew._ As if he’d researched him- John froze. No. Bane would have killed him outright if he knew who he really was. Or maybe fuck him and then kill him. But why this tenderness? It made no sense.

Bane bit him gently again, slightly higher on the side of his neck and his thoughts shattered. “Mmmm,” he hummed into the duvet, squirming again, pulling against Bane’s grasp. He could feel Bane through the man’s cargo pants, hard against the swell of John’s ass. He would not buck back into him. He wouldn’t, _he wouldn’t._

As though reading his mind, Bane’s hips pressed forward, just a bit, seating Bane’s erection along John’s crack, the heat of it making his hole clench. He tried to escape by flattening his body to the mattress, away from that pulsing cock. Bane wouldn’t let him, wrapping a tree trunk arm around his waist, across his stomach, pulling John back up on his knees so he could grind his erection against him. John’s pulse fluttered, his cock drooling at the treatment. He was trapped, being used for this huge man’s pleasure, and it was good. So good. He felt the rising tide of chemicals, the ones that would take him under, pull him into subspace. His body was begging to go under, it had been so long, so long since a man had been able to do this to him. John knew he was already so far above his head in all this. His target had turned out to be Bane himself, and there was no escape, not without Bane letting him go. So he might as well give himself over, right? Was his logic sound? He didn’t know, didn’t know…

Bane’s hand slipped down his stomach and palmed John through his underwear. He cried out and bucked against the hold on his arms. Bane gave a pleased sounding hum at finding him straining against the cotton briefs. His thumb rubbed back and forth over the wet spot covering John’s leaking slit. Bane groaned, the sound reverberating all through John, trapped beneath him.

John could feel himself slipping, closer and closer, his stuttered gasps turning into small moans, the thumb still teasing the head of his cock, back and forth, back and forth, his arms still trapped in the vise-like grasp. He tried to shift forward, to get more of Bane’s hand on him. Anything but this maddening lick of flame burning and burning but not enough to get him to orgasm. If he could just come, maybe he could think clearly.

He groaned when Bane stopped moving his thumb against him, punishing him for resisting. John couldn’t stand it. He bucked wildly, trying to free himself, trying to get friction, something, anything. Bane leaned down, caging him tighter, biting his neck in the same spot as before, only slightly harder. And, just like that, John was gone, subspace enclosing him in a woolen chemical blanket.

He was somewhat aware of Bane slowly loosening his grip on his wrists, testing to see if he was going to try and get away. When John didn’t move, just laid there, docile, he must have been satisfied, pulling away and reaching for the mask. Once it was back in place, he began shifting John’s body so he was lying on his back. Bane switched on a small lamp on the nightstand, the dim light blinding in the dark room.

“I didn’t know you would go down so easy for me,” Bane said, as softly as the vocoder allowed. “You had so much fight in you, yet, under my hands, you slipped into it like a dream.” He seemed wondering, his hands trailing down John’s arms to his fingers, checking to see if his circulation had been cut off while he had been restraining him. He rubbed John’s slightly cold fingers until they were warm. “I would kiss you but for needing the mask again, as it was getting quite painful being without it.”

John gazed up at him, his eyes unfocused, listening to that rumbling voice, his cock twitching every time Bane touched him, even innocently rubbing his hands back to life. But then Bane began stroking him softly with his fingertips, all over John’s face, his hair, his ears, down his throat. John mewled and thrashed his head when Bane got to his nipples, so Bane twisted them gently, getting slowly rougher, until John was drooling precome again, his cock jumping in his briefs.

“Let’s fix these, shall we?” Bane said, reaching for the elastic band of his underwear. John moaned out his hearty consent, needing Bane’s hands on him again, wanting to come, _needing_ to come...

“Uh, uh, _uh,”_ John grunted incomprehensibly, as Bane pulled his briefs down just enough to trap the head of his cock against his stomach, stroking it again like he had before, barely-there touches, this time slick, with no fabric in between, just the slight hint of Bane’s calloused skin. The tight elastic under the head acted as a sort of cock ring, trapping the blood at the tip and making it pulse with sensitivity. John glanced down and it looked dream-like, the head so crimson and shiny with his own precome that it didn’t look real. And still, Bane’s patient thumb rubbed back and forth while he watched him, his eyes dark even in the light from the lamp.

“Do you think you could come like this?” Bane asked, speeding up the tiniest bit. He pushed down on John’s glans, too soft, but John’s eyes rolled back in his skull. “I think you could, don’t you?”

John was crying now. Tears slipping down his cheeks silently, his legs twitching, the muscles in his stomach spasming. “Please, please, please…” he mumbled, half-coherent.

“Shhh,” Bane crooned. “Just let go, little bird. Let go.” Bane made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and slipped around the head of John’s cock, so that he was encircling the entire glans, twisting the slick ring around it, back and forth, around and around. All of the most sensitive nerves lit up, his entire cockhead felt like it was on fire, and then he was coming and sobbing. He hiccuped, his arms moving up to cover his head and he was still coming, his thighs trembling uncontrollably.

It wasn’t until he felt Bane stripping his briefs the rest of the way off him that John realized how deep he’d gone under, and that his orgasm was finally over. He slumped on the bed, still under, but closer to the surface than before. Bane, shirtless, but still wearing his cargo pants, shifted closer to him, pulling him against his huge body, warm and solid. He arranged John so his shoulder was tucked into Bane’s armpit, and his head was resting against Bane’s massive neck. Bane kept his own head tilted away so as not to graze him with the mask.

John breathed deeply, trying to get his bearings. Trying to surface. He was pulling up slowly, like trying to swim through molasses. All his limbs felt heavy. Did Bane need to get off now? He needed to get Bane to pay him, threaten him, and let him go. He needed to get back to headquarters, needed to-

Bane was searching for something in one of his cargo pockets. John used the distraction to pull away a bit. “So, I should probably get going…” he said, barely remembering to use the accent, his voice a broken whisper, shaky and unreliable. “Unless you’d like me to-” John gestured at Bane’s crotch.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, okay then. I’ll just get my things and-”

“I’m sorry John,” Bane said, and all of John’s blood ran cold as Bane pricked the skin of his neck with a needle. He could only catch Bane’s concerned eyes for a moment before the room went dark, like a heavy curtain falling into place.

 


	2. Chapter 2

John’s stomach fluttered unpleasantly. He tried to turn in his sleep, but realized that he was leaning back in a chair… a recliner? The chair gave a slight lurch and for just a moment John felt as though he were falling before the chair pressed back under his body again, cradling him.

Gasping, he sat up, hands grabbing for the armrests, just as the chair dipped again, a feeling of floating overwhelming him. He blinked rapidly. Why couldn’t he see? The sound hit him then- the drone of engines, loud, but muffled. Hollow sounding.

There was movement next to him and then a female voice was speaking in a foreign language, something John couldn’t wrap his mind around. He felt fingers brushing over his face near his eyes. He jerked back, trapped against a wall - a wall that was shaking, vibrating with the sound of the engine - before he heard the voice switch to English.

“Hold still, let me get this off,” she said. John froze. The fingers touched him again and then he could see the woman sitting next to him, holding a simple sleeping mask in her hand, which she had apparently just removed from his eyes. It was the same woman that had been sent to retrieve him from the Kiev Metro station. John looked around frantically, trying to figure out where he was. 

He was on a plane. It was small. A personal jet. He was sitting in a large, leather-cushioned chair, a blanket draped over him, puddling in his lap. He was belted into the seat, but otherwise not restrained. 

The interior of the plane reminded John of the house he’d been in the night before. It was nicely furnished, cozy and elegant without being flashy. Expensive, but not ornate. Designed for comfort. Normal.

The woman, who was sitting next to him in an identical chair to John’s, checked him over briefly with her eyes, as if ascertaining whether or not he was about to put up a fight, and then called over her shoulder, the words unfamiliar to John. A moment later, a door opened at the front of the plane. Bane stood in the doorway, speaking briefly to the pilot behind him, before coming to loom over John.

The woman gave up her seat to Bane, taking his place in the cockpit and pulling the door closed behind her. Bane settled his bulk in the leather seat next to John, giving him a thorough once-over with his eyes. 

John’s brain was still foggy from whatever Bane had used to knock him out. He knew that the gig was up, had probably been up from the moment the woman met him at the metro station. What he didn’t know, was why he was still alive. He even had a blanket in his lap, for fuck’s sake. His thoughts wheeled away from him, refusing to coalesce.

He made the mistake of looking up and meeting Bane’s eyes. All his rusty thoughts ground to a halt. The man dwarfed the roomy armchair, his body deceptively relaxed into the soft contours of the cushions, his torso slightly rotated to face his prisoner. Yet, John could see the tension he carried. The man was ready to move at a moment’s notice, his eyes pinning John down, like a weight on his chest. John’s skin broke out in pinpricks of sweat all over his body, simultaneously, making him feel like he’d been doused in ice water.

John swallowed, trying to find his voice. His throat was dry. Actually, he felt parched. He wondered how long he had been knocked out and how far this plane had managed to carry him away from Kiev and his backup; his backup who had no idea where he was.

Bane moved and John jumped, the safety belt digging into his hips and restraining him. John thought,  _ this is it, I’m dead. _ Bane leaned forward, toward the leather ottoman in front of their seats, lifting the top and taking out a bottle of water. He leaned back in his seat and held it out to John, the cap still sealed. That didn’t mean it wasn’t tampered with, John thought.

John took it from him, thirst winning out over suspicion. It would be ridiculous for them to take him with them, just to poison him with a bottle of water, when Bane could easily snap his neck. He gulped the water down. His first bottle finished, Bane handed him a second one, watching him drink half of it before recapping it and setting it in the armrest cupholder.

“You know who I am,” John said, his head pounding with the effort it took to speak over the engines.

Bane nodded, his eyes never leaving John’s. “Detective Robin John Blake of the Gotham City Police,” Bane rumbled, his body resuming its false-restful pose. John’s eyes dropped to the mask, the vocoder rasping and popping, adding menace to his words, before looking back up and being caught by those magnetic eyes. Bane continued, reciting John’s badge number, code names, even his home address in Gotham. “Orphan; raised at the Saint Swithin’s Home for Boys. Placed with several foster families, but returned to the facility for issues related to fits of rage. Aged out of the system at eighteen. Volunteers to work with the the current residents of the orphanage.” Bane concluded, his voice going inexplicably softer, though still loud enough to be heard over the jet’s drone. 

“You haven’t killed me,” John said, his thoughts still scattered.

“No, I have not,” Bane answered calmly.

“Why?” John asked, alarm bells going off in his rational mind, warning him not to draw attention to the fact that they hadn’t killed him, as if it were merely some oversight that Bane would correct once it was pointed out to him.

“Because I do not wish to,” Bane answered.

“How… how did you know who I was?” John asked, mentally kicking himself. He should be finding out where they were headed, making a plan, figuring out how to call his partner. Not asking Bane how he’d managed to see through his cover.

Bane’s eyes softened, the edges crinkling slightly. John wondered if that meant the man was smiling behind the mask. “I knew who you were, Detective Blake. Is that not obvious?” John was shocked by the warmth of Bane’s calloused skin as he covered John’s wrist with his hand. The feeling of being caught wasn’t lessened by the slow sweep of Bane’s rough thumb along the back of his arm.

“But,” John said, still trying to catch up. He wondered if the drugs were still holding onto to his thoughts. “But,” he tried again, “the other men. The callboys. Did you…” What was he talking about? Why was he asking about the other men Bane had fucked? That should have been the farthest thing from his mind. Those men were alive, they were fine. They were paying off loans and making their rent. They were fine. John had managed to botch his cover all on his own. Those other men didn’t enter into it.

Bane seemed amused, his thumb still gently rubbing John’s arm above his wrist. He tilted his head ever so slightly as he looked down at him. “You don’t truly think those boys ever laid eyes on me, do you?”

John’s cheeks suddenly burned hot, realization hitting him. “They were decoys,” he said, feeling incredibly stupid. “Pale skin, dark hair…” he mumbled. Bane reached out with the hand not holding John’s wrist and took hold of his chin, tipping his face up from where he’d been gazing at Bane’s massive hand resting over his.

“My associate drove them around for a few hours and handed them an envelope full of cash. It was strongly implied that if they said anything about the arrangement, things would not go well for them. I never saw them. I never touched them, John”

“It was a trap,” John said, in awe of how blind he’d been. He met Bane’s burning eyes. “And I walked straight into it.”

“I have caught you, little bird,” Bane rumbled, stroking his face before slipping his hand into John’s hair above his ear, brushing his fingers through the waves. “I like your hair like this,” he said, petting him. “I’m glad you grew it out for me.”

John wanted to argue that it hadn’t been for Bane. Though, from a certain point of view, that’s exactly what he’d done. “You’re alive,” John said instead, not moving as the hand on his wrist trailed up to rest on his shoulder, the one in his hair smoothing over his scalp before brushing over his neck, gently grasping the other shoulder. Bane was entirely turned towards him now, and John was twisted in his own seat, the safety belt tight across his waist.

Bane hummed an affirmative. “I am alive.”

“But-”

“I was wounded,” Bane confirmed. “But I have healed.” He continued to hold John by the shoulders, gazing down at him. John’s thoughts scattered. Bane was overwhelming this close. John thought, once again, that seeing him on the news hadn’t done the man justice. It wasn’t just his size, but the intensity of his gaze, the heavy heat of his hands…

Bane’s thumbs trailed over his collarbones, bare under the wide-necked shirt he’d worn as part of his call boy outfit. Bane must have dressed him while he was unconscious. John shivered. Bane hummed, the vocoder turning it into static.

“Where are we going?” John asked, his training trying to take back over, warring with the pull of his other self, that part of him that hadn’t been touched like this in a long, long time. He blinked, willing that other side of himself back into the darkness, the cop struggling to take control of the situation.

“My home,” Bane responded, his thumbs moving inward and upward, stroking up the column of John’s throat, feeling tendons as they went, outlining his windpipe. John sucked in a sharp breath, trying to focus.

“The League of Shadows?” John tried, daring to be bold even as those huge hands enveloped his throat.

Bane hummed what John took for a ‘yes’ again, ducking his head and leaning in close, the mask lightly brushing John’s cheek as he moved his face towards his neck. John both felt and heard the inhale, as though Bane was trying to get his scent through the mask. Bane grunted in frustration, letting go of John with one hand so he could remove the mask, his face still hidden from him as Bane leaned his bare chin into John’s hair. John couldn’t see what was happening over his shoulder, but he felt the edges of the mask against his back as Bane held it in the hand that pulled him closer. 

John jumped at the first brush of lips on his throat. The hand that wasn’t holding the mask and cradling John’s back was still at his neck, the thick fingers curling around to trace his vertebrae, the thumb still pressing against his windpipe, the pressure slowly increasing. John held stock-still. He was in extreme danger, he knew that. He’d seen crime scene photos of the men whose necks Bane had snapped. He gasped, Bane pressing firmer, just enough to restrict his breathing without cutting off his air completely.

John didn’t know what to do. Bane  _ must _ be more vulnerable without his mask. It was his only weak spot as far as John knew. His hands were free. But what could he hope to accomplish? He could probably take the two people in the cockpit. He could put the plane on autopilot while he figured out where they were and radioed for help. He just needed to send a message to his partner. Or to Commissioner Gordon. Then his life wouldn’t matter. But at the moment, he was the only person who knew that Bane was still alive.

Bane set the mask down somewhere behind John, then sought out both his wrists and trapped them in his hand, placing them on the armrest between them. He moved in closer, his thick thumb still restricting his airflow. Bane was breathing harder, perhaps affected by the mask’s absence. John’s forehead came to rest in the hollow between Bane’s neck and the bulge of muscle on his shoulder. He realized that instead of pulling back, he was pushing into Bane’s grip, encouraging him to press down just a bit more…

Bane’s uneven mouth worked up the side of his throat, over his ear, his breath rasping and deep. “Robin,” he whispered, the name shredded to ribbons by that voice. Then Bane was pulling back, looking at him without the mask. John’s heart lept in shock. Bane’s mouth was scarred. So was the lower half of his face. His nose had been broken, likely multiple times. He was... In his oxygen deprived state, John just blinked slowly, taking in that ravaged face.

He should try and get a hand free… go for Bane’s eyes, try to blind him… hurt him enough to get free, get to the cockpit, take the gun off the female henchman-

He felt a harsh breath trying to escape his compressed throat. The lack of oxygen must have been making him emotional, because he felt like sobbing.  Bane was staring at him fiercely, hungrily. John didn’t resist when he leaned forward, kissing him. He opened his mouth to it instead, moaning when Bane filled the void with his tongue, invading him. He pushed into the kiss trying to touch more of Bane, his arms trapped between them. 

He was still drugged; that was the only reason for his reaction. Maybe they had shot him up with something more while he was knocked out. Something to make him feel exposed, vulnerable. It was too much… this feeling. The tide was rushing up, flooding his brain with pleasant chemicals. No. He couldn’t go under again. He was being held prisoner by a madman. A terrorist whose tongue John was currently trying to swallow.

John thrashed in Bane’s hold, fighting the encroaching subspace. Bane pulled back just enough, to murmur, “Let go. You are safe, Robin.”

A panicked laugh bubbled up from his chest. “Safe?” he rasped, just enough air to make his voice heard.

“Yes,” Bane said, his breath labored. Despite his obvious discomfort, he moved forward to cover John’s mouth with his again. John twisted sideways, avoiding Bane’s lips. He began struggling in earnest, pulling away instead of pushing in. At last Bane’s hand dropped from his throat. His grip had been loosening already, letting John take in more and more air, but the sudden influx of oxygen had John’s head spinning for a moment. He stared down at his lap, catching his breath and pretending not to notice how much he had been affected. The man had played his body like a fiddle with nothing but a kiss and a thumb at his throat.

The mask was back in place by the time John looked up at Bane, his face hidden except for his eyes. John cursed internally. He’d missed his best opening to get to the cockpit. Though a rational part of his brain knew he hadn’t stood a chance, his dignity demanded that he at least  _ try. _

Bane was staring at him, his body shifted back into his seat, the deceptively easy pose betrayed by the strain in his muscles. John wondered how long he could go without the mask. Having it off for a few minutes hadn’t seemed to affect his strength, but his breathing had become noticeably labored in a short period of time. If Bane removed it again, John would try and smash it. It might gain him enough of an advantage to get away and radio out a message.

John pressed himself against the wall of the plane, wondering if Bane would let him lift the window shade and look out. He had no idea where they were or what time it was. Or even what day it was. What would Bruce Wayne have done in this situation? Probably jumped out of the plane and opened up a parachute that had been disguised as a tiepin. Though, John remembered, Bruce hadn’t always had money and fancy tech at his disposal. Not while he was training with the League of Shadows. What would that Bruce have done? The one that had destroyed the house of Ra’s al Ghul, completely alone?

John’s eyes flicked over to Bane, who was still watching him, pretending to be relaxed. Had he known Bruce? Back before there was a Batman? John knew so little about this man, he realized. The reports he’d poured over had next to nothing about Bane previous to his invasion of the city. Even then it had been sketchy at best. No one was sure he even existed until he had arrived in Gotham.

Bruce could have met him, back when they were both much younger men. They could have trained together. But then, Bruce hadn’t recognized Talia, and Bane had been close to Ra’s al Ghul’s daughter. 

John wondered for a minute if Talia might still be alive, before discarding it. Her body hadn’t been burnt the way Bane’s body-double's had. She had been retrieved from the truck, broken and lifeless, but recognizable.

No, Bane was alone. He had only a few henchmen with him, and they were flying someplace to regroup. What was John’s part in all this? Was he a hostage- a bartering chip? Surely, Bane must know that he’d gain nothing by threatening his life. John was prepared to die for his mission, and Bane knew it. So did his partner. So did Jim Gordon. They would never betray their city or their country just to get John back in one piece.

Information, then? What did John know that Bane didn’t? The FBI and the police didn’t even know Bane was alive. John’s undercover op had been a last-ditch effort by a desperate team trying anything they could to get intel on the League. By all accounts, he should be worthless to Bane.

They continued to watch one another for several long minutes; Bane’s gaze direct, John’s hidden behind half-lidded eyes, his head resting against the plane’s wall. At last, Bane stood and walked back to the cockpit. John didn’t have time to think about trying anything before the woman was back, Bane having disappeared behind the door. 

The woman didn’t sit down next to him, but flopped into another chair facing his across the ottoman. She opened her coat, retrieving a granola bar from an inner pocket while also showing John that she was armed. He sunk back into his seat, defeated, and she flung the bar at him. John let it slide off his leg and hit the floor. He left it there. They pointedly ignored one another for the rest of the flight.

 

* * *

 

The plane landed about an hour later, and any hopes John had been entertaining that he could slip away from his captors and disappear into a crowded city vanished as soon as he looked outside. The landing field was in the middle of a huge mountain range, occupying the only few acres of level ground that John could see in any direction. There were a few scattered outbuildings at the edge of the field, but no other airplanes or people. For all intents and purposes, the place was deserted.

John climbed down the folding ladder and stood on the frozen ground. The air snapped in John’s lungs, thin and dry with the altitude. There was no snow in the landing field, but the impressive mountains that stretched away in all directions were crowned with white. The wind was sharp, wailing around the structure of the plane in gusts. John wanted to get right back on the plane and fly away from this desolate place, as beautiful as it was.

“Marissa,” Bane called up to the plane door from the bottom of the ladder, and the woman’s head appeared in the doorway. “Get Detective Blake’s coat.” Marissa disappeared, coming back in a moment with a dark gray parka John had never seen before. There were gloves and a hat shoved into the pockets, and as another gust of wind hit him, howling in his ears, John fumbled everything on as quickly as possible. While he was fiddling with getting the hat over his ears, a pair of boots where placed next to him. John exchanged his useless fashion sneakers for the boots, pulling them on and lacing them up, already shivering in the cold.

Bane had climbed the steps and was back inside the plane. John’s first thought was that they were going to leave him there. His guts churned and his back went rigid with panic. Bane was going to abandon him. All that possessive behavior that John knew he shouldn’t crave but did, amounted to nothing in the end. They were going to leave him here to die. He felt a sense of betrayal so deep, it shocked him. He was left, looking at that side of himself he had denied time and time again, but had never been brought face-to-face with like this before. He was afraid… afraid of being heaved aside like garbage; afraid of being abandoned, unwanted.

A pack landed at his feet, heaved from the open doorway, followed shortly by another. The second was significantly larger than the first, but both looked solidly packed and heavy. Bane began to descend the ladder once more, and John grit his teeth over the wave of relief that flooded him. Ashamed of his instinctual reaction, which was to go to Bane to be comforted, he let his cop brain take over and plan an escape. 

As Bane was strapping the smaller of the two backpacks over John’s shoulders, which turned out to be even heavier than it looked, he worked it out in his head. If he and Bane walked a ways from the plane, John could fall back a few steps, drop his pack, and make a run for the plane. If luck was on his side, Bane’s pack would slow him down enough for John to get into the plane, raise the ladder and close the door. If luck were still on his side, then Marissa and the pilot would still be in the cockpit and he could take them by surprise, get Marissa’s gun, and-

The stairs folded up behind them, the door shutting shortly after, as the jet’s engines powered up for take-off. John turned away and studied the outbuildings. If he locked himself in one of them, how long would it take for another plane to land? Would they help him escape? Or would Bane simply knock the shack over?

Bane stood, balancing his heavy pack, and surveyed John. He came and tugged the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, cocooning the hat against his frozen ears. Then he pulled the hood of the parka over the first hood. Bane also had on a hat and hood, both dark, the mask covering his face so that only his eyes showed in the gray light reflecting off the peaks.

“Have you ever hiked in the mountains?” Bane asked. John shook his head. “Have you ever spent time at a high altitude?”

“No.”

Bane simply nodded, though there seemed to be some concern in his eyes. Maybe he was worried that John would slow him down. John turned to watch as the jet taxied to the end of the field, making a slow turn, before gaining speed and taking to the sky with a roar. He was distracted from watching it disappear into the haze by Bane holding out two pills and a bottle of water.

“Take these. They will help with the altitude.” John decided quickly that he was a lot more likely to survive if he heeded Bane’s instructions. The man had apparently trained and lived in these mountains for some time, and John knew next to nothing about mountain survival. Or wilderness survival of any kind, actually. He huffed a a white breath of cold air and took the pills, washing them down with a swig from the water bottle.

Bane looked him over carefully one more time before they set off over the rough terrain, immediately beginning a steady climb upwards along a faint path. John marched along after Bane like a good little hostage, whistling off and on to take his mind off of what was likely waiting for him. Beyond looking through his pack when they stopped, trying to see what he could use as a weapon, there was no reasonable plan he could come up with. He didn’t know where they were, other than somewhere in the Himalayas, and even that was just an educated guess. He had no idea where they were going, or why, other than the likelihood that Bane wanted to raise another force of terrorists.

They stopped often. John knew that it was for his benefit, and he would have resented it if he hadn’t been so tired. He wondered if it was the narcotic still affecting him from earlier. He’d felt fine when they’d first set out, but hiking the nearly nonexistent trails was leaving him winded.

Bane made him drink a lot of water. In fact, he found that the majority of both their packs were taken up with water bottles. Bane kept all the ones they emptied, storing them in John’s pack and rearranging the load so that he took the larger share of water on his own shoulders. John didn’t complain.

They hiked and then rested, on and off, all day. John only knew that it was approaching night because the gray sky began to slowly dim. They had been marching steadily uphill, and were now to an elevation that had a slight dusting of snow. Bane located a patch of level ground and began setting up a tent that looked barely larger than a coffin. John eyed it suspiciously, groaning internally when he saw that there was no separate tent for him.

He hoped that they would build a campfire to at least warm up some food, but instead they ate standing up, facing away from the wind. Bane had his mask around his neck, eating a few protein bars quickly before replacing it. John also ate quickly, his fingers freezing where they held onto the foil packet, his glove shoved in a pocket. They each drank a bottle of water and then relieved themselves, out of sight of the other, before returning to the tent.

John had, of course, at least considered the idea of slipping away from Bane. But he wasn’t that stupid. He knew that unguided, without a pack, he’d be dead in a few days, and that was only if he managed to not fall to his death as soon as he took a step away from their camp. In this place, Bane was his lifeline.

Bane crawled inside the tent first, maneuvering his bulk to the side so that John could wiggle in. John jostled around until he could zip the flap closed behind himself and felt the instant relief of being out of the icy wind. He was able to take a few breaths in comfort, the sting of the air lessened now that he was inside the flimsy shelter.

They were resting on a foam bedroll, protecting them from the frozen earth, and Bane unfolded a thermal blanket to drape over them. John’s hopes of sleeping back to back were dashed when Bane reached for him under the blanket, pulling him back-to-chest and spooning around him. Bane had opened the front of his jacket, practically pulling John inside with him and wrapping the body-heated fabric around him. John had to admit it was much warmer Bane’s way.

John had Bane’s meaty bicep to use as a pillow, while Bane pulled at the corner of one of the packs until he could rest his head against it. Then he yanked off both their pairs of gloves and started rubbing John’s cold fingers, bringing them tingling back to life.

“How are your feet?” Bane asked, once he had circulation back in his fingers.

“Cold,” John answered, truthfully. They felt frozen. Not frostbitten - not that he had a lot of experience with that - just cold and achy and miserable. It took some maneuvering, but between them, they managed to get his boots off and Bane curled over him to rub warmth back into his icy toes with his hands.

John knew he could have done it himself. He didn’t need Bane to do it for him, though the huge man seemed to run super warm and his heat soaked into John wherever he touched him. John let him do it. He blamed it on survival instinct, on fear, on the cold… he blamed it on anything he could think of that wasn’t his enjoyment of being looked after by a man that could snap him in half if he so desired. 

He shivered and Bane wrapped him back up again after tugging his socks back on but leaving his boots off. Bane arranged them so that, even though he clutched John tightly, the mask didn’t press against him. John pulled the edges of the blanket in around himself, locking in their shared body heat. Finally warm for first time since they’d left the plane, he drifted off to sleep, the wind howling off the cliffs above their heads.

 

* * *

 

The next day was much the same as the first. Bane regulated their breaks, which were frequent but brief. He seemed anxious to keep covering ground, but he was also mindful of the much weaker human he had in tow, stopping to make sure John ate and drank, and that his extremities still had feeling.

They did. They hurt. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was irritating. John had never thought of himself as soft, but just twenty-four hours in the mountains had made him reevaluate his opinion of himself. He could fight. He could run. He was in pretty good shape. He could hold his own on the streets of Gotham. 

The Himalayas were a whole other story. They were merciless and frightening and beautiful. John would stop to gaze around every so often, the pure majesty of his surroundings taking his breath away, only to look frantically for Bane the next moment to make sure he was still within view. He found himself walking closer to Bane than necessary: at his side if the way was wide enough, directly behind him if it wasn’t.

“How much farther?” John asked when they stopped for a break around lunchtime.

“Nearly three days,” Bane answered. “We will reach the highest point tomorrow, then begin to descend.”

“We’re going up to go down?” John asked.

“Essentially, yes,” Bane answered. “We must cross a high range, and although I planned our route to be as easy as possible,” John tried not to feel ashamed that this was obviously for his benefit, “we still must climb to reach the lowest point of the pass. After that, we will begin walking back down, and it will be another day and a half until we reach the League’s headquarters.”

“You called it home.”

“Yes.”

“But it’s just a base, right? A fortress?”

“More or less. Some might call it a temple.”

“But not you,” John pressed.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I see it as a training ground, a home, a refuge. It is simply a wood and stone structure, hidden in the mountains. There is nothing mystical in that. There have been other headquarters. Other temples. They have been burned, ransacked, destroyed, just like any other building, any other temple.”

John thought of Bruce. “Batman trained in these mountains, didn’t he?”

Bane gave him a long, searching look. “Yes, he did.”

“You must have hated him. For turning his back on his training. For… what he did to al Ghul’s fortress.” It had all been in the journals that had been left for John in Bruce’s will. Journals that were in a safe box back in the bat cave under Wayne Mansion. Waiting for John to finish this mission, so that he could return and figure out how to carry on the heavy legacy Bruce had placed on his shoulders.

Bane sat unnaturally still, all his attention focused on John. “I have come to reevaluate my thoughts on the Batman,” Bane said carefully. “He was not what… what Talia made him out to be,” Bane said her name with pained reverence. “Nor was he what he pretended to be for the sake of his city. He was… a more nuanced man than was easily discernible. He had a strength that I failed to recognize.”

“I think that could be said of anyone who thought they knew him,” John said, his brow furrowing at Bane’s tone. He sounded almost regretful.

“I do not believe that Bruce Wayne abandoned his training,” Bane continued, solemnly, his eyes communicating that this was something he’d given a lot of thought. “I believe he was one of the few who understood what the training truly meant.”

There was silence after that, both men gazing out over the frozen beauty of the mountains. Once they had finished their meager rations, they continued their steady climb, side by side.

 

* * *

 

That night, when they stopped for the day and Bane had set up their tent, he brought over some oat bars, a bit of jerky and some dried fruit. They ate in relative silence, facing away from the wind. 

“You’re squinting,” Bane said, after replacing the mask. It looked right somehow, out here in the mountains: Bane’s massive bulk draped in a dark hood and wearing a mask. He looked real here, in a way he hadn’t in Gotham.

John shrugged. “Headache,” he said by way of explanation. He hadn’t really noticed how bad it had gotten until then, though he had been fighting it for awhile.

“How long have you had it?” Bane asked, coming close and bending down so he could look into John’s eyes.

“A few hours,” John replied, trying to focus on Bane. His head really was starting to pound. “Probably dehydrated,” John added. Bane grunted and moved to the large pack, coming back with more water and a bottle of ibuprofen. 

“Take three of those,” Bane directed. John followed orders and also took the same pill that Bane had given him the day before. “Tell me if it gets worse,” Bane said, looking seriously into John’s eyes. 

They crawled into the tent, taking up the same position as the night before. Bane rubbed John’s fingers and toes back to life, then hauled him in close to be the little spoon, warming him up with one massive arm across his chest, cradling him tight. Except, John couldn’t fall asleep this time. He was bone-weary, but he just couldn’t manage it. The headache was better, thanks to the medicine, but now his stomach was churning. He found himself wishing he hadn’t eaten anything for dinner, as meager as it was, because it was rolling in his stomach. 

Bane noticed his listlessness and pulled his arm away, relieving some of the pressure. He rubbed soothing circles against his back. “Your stomach?’

“Yes.”

Bane rummaged around in the dark, locating what he was looking for quickly and curling back around John. There was a crinkle of packaging, and then Bane’s fingers were at his lips, “Let this dissolve under your tongue,” he instructed, slipping a thin tablet into his mouth. John rolled it under his tongue, the taste of herbs and spearmint and something vaguely chalky filling his mouth and making it water. He swallowed, grimacing as his stomach protested at first.  He began to feel better as the churning slowly settled down.

Bane kneaded at John’s neck and the base of his skull, relieving some of the pressure there, allowing him to finally relax. “Mmm,” John hummed, appreciating the treatment. Bane returned to rubbing circles on his back as John finally started to drift off to sleep.

“Soon,” Bane rumbled. “We will only be ascending until midday tomorrow, then we will start back down and you will feel better.”

John hummed again. He was almost looking forward to arriving, if it meant not feeling like he had the mother of all hangovers.

 

* * *

 

He awoke the next morning dry heaving and desperately trying to breathe between spasms. The cloth walls shivered as Bane crawled back into the tent beside him, his jacket cold from being outside the safety of the tent. He held him, turning him so that he wouldn’t choke if he vomited. When he was settled on his side, panting but no longer retching, Bane pulled out a small emergency supply kit and prepared an injection.

John tried to push his hands away, remembering the shot that had knocked him out before, but Bane murmured to him soothingly. “This will help with the mountain sickness,” he said, taking hold of John’s clammy hand before wrestling his sleeve up and administering the dose. He put another tablet under John’s tongue and it melted there, John trying not to throw up. Finally, after what felt like a small eternity, but must have only been about twenty minutes, the terrible nausea retreated somewhat and John was able to drink some water. He had a splitting headache. Crawling out of the tent into the light sent his head throbbing. He moaned as he sat with a plop in the newly fallen snow.

Bane made him swallow some more ibuprofen and handed him and oxygen cylinder fitted with a small breathing mask.  He showed John how to use it and let him breathe as he quickly dismantled the tent. 

While John watched, Bane tipped the pot of snow he was melting, carefully allowing the liquid to splash from the pot’s spout into the wide neck of the waiting bottle. John counted several bottles that Bane had refilled, and wondered how long he’d been up, hunched over the small canister stove. Bane looked up from the bottles and let his eyes trail over John, as if trying to figure out a complex math problem. He stowed the refilled bottles away in his pack, then he went through John’s bag and practically emptied it, before hoisting the now exceedingly heavy pack on his own shoulders. He helped John to his feet and the world swayed sickeningly.

They made slow progress up to the pass. Bane stopped them often, checking John over again and again, medicating him as necessary. He had him breathe from the small oxygen tank, but his face was worried as he checked the rate at which John was going through it.

“We need to conserve it,” Bane explained softly, shutting off the flow and taking it out of John’s cold hands. “This one is almost gone, and we only have one more with us. John nodded, though he hated parting with the tank. His headache wasn’t as bad when he was breathing from it, and his thoughts were clearer. Already, the mental fog was returning, along with the headache.

By the time they could see the top of the pass, John was fighting to breathe. Bane had given him the fresh oxygen tank, and had turned the flow up as high as he dared, but still, John was struggling. He started to cough, dry and raspy, and he wondered if he’d managed to come down with bronchitis. His lungs itched and burned, rasping louder with every mile that passed.

Bane stopped them for longer now, pawing over John, feeling his flushed face and placing a hand over his chest as he breathed. His eyes were anxious as he gave him another shot of medicine. It helped enough that John was able to walk through the pass on his own, carrying his laughably light pack, and begin the descent on the other side.

By the time they stopped for the night, the headache had returned in full force. Bane tried to get him to eat an oat and raisin bar, but he simply couldn’t swallow it. Even the feeling of the food in his mouth had him dry heaving again. Bane forced some more water and medicine into him and then held him through the night, John’s face tucked against Bane’s chest instead of facing away from him, as Bane rubbed soothing circles into his back.

He slept in fits and starts, dozing for a few minutes only to start awake in Bane’s arms, the huge man petting through his hair to calm him. He started to cough again sometime toward early morning, the spasms exhausting him but not allowing him to sleep. As soon as there was the faintest hint of light, Bane raised up on his elbow, ready to tear down the tent and get them moving.

It was as Bane began to sit up that John saw it: pink froth on the front of Bane’s white undershirt. Bane saw it at the same moment as John, going perfectly still. He looked at John, and it was the look of despair in Bane’s eyes that scared him; that ran him through with fear even more than the bloody foam he’d coughed up during the early morning.

“I’m going to die,” John rasped, feeling like he was trying to breathe through a wet cloth, “Aren’t I?”

“No,” Bane said, and his eyes were dark and dangerous. He pumped John full of medicine, forced him to drink water, and then wrapped his arm around him for support as they walked. 

Bane didn’t go slow and they didn’t take as many breaks as the day before. He was obviously racing against some deadline of his own. John didn’t know. It was hard to think, hard to do anything. Thank god they were moving steadily downhill instead of up, or John didn’t know if he’d be able to keep on his feet. 

As it was, Bane was practically dragging him by the time they bunked down for the night, John coughing up pink foam again, his head pounding and pounding until he wanted to dig into his skull with his nails to relieve some of the pressure. More medicine, and the headache receded enough for him to pass out for a few blissful hours.

His peaceful sleep came to an end early the next morning, the frozen world still dark around them. John’s heart was beating fast, his breath trying to keep pace, but he was coughing and coughing and he couldn’t breathe.

Bane held the air canister up to his face, John greedily sucking in the last of the tank’s reserves. He was whining on each exhale now. It was something his body was doing without his permission. Bane held a water bottle up to his lips and John tried to take it from him to drink, but he lost his grip and dropped it.

“John,” Bane said, and even through the vocoder he could hear the panic. “Robin?” Bane tried again. He wanted to answer him, but the only sound his body could produce was that almost inhuman whine as he exhaled. Everything hurt. Everything ached. He just wanted to sleep…

The world spun and then he was being carried quickly through the semi dark, the thermal blanket wrapped around him. Bane must have grabbed the smaller pack with the medicine and the water. It bumped along near John’s knees as Bane carried him like a child down the path. John clutched the nearly empty oxygen tank and just tried to breathe. Bane was doing all the important work. John could focus on just breathing. In and out. In and out.

By the time his vision had narrowed down to a point at the end of a long, gray tunnel, his ears ringing and his heartbeat fluttering angrily, Bane was nearly running, still clutching John to chest. John felt his eyes roll back, his lungs laboring even harder. There was a pause in the rolling motion of Bane’s body, and a moment later a mask descended over his face. It was much larger and heavier than the oxygen mask. A thick vapor seeped through the tight passages of his airways as he gasped and choked on the unfamiliar substance.

Though still labored, his breathing became more regular. His blood felt like it was burning, boiling up in his veins, but at the same time, the crushing pain in his head and lungs began to recede. John nearly sobbed in relief. He clutched to the front of Bane’s jacket, his head pressed against his massive chest, listening to the heartbeat within, the slowly increasing laboring of the lungs under his ear and the crunch of running boots over the frozen ground.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Thank you all for your immense patience. I re-wrote this chapter three times before I was happy with it.
> 
> Thanks tons for all your encouragement, here and on Tumblr! I love you guys all so much.

Cold. Shouldn’t be this cold. Can’t... can’t breathe.

Head hurts. Lungs on fire.

Hold onto Robin. Don’t drop him. Don’t let him go.

Foot forward. Leg swings. Boot breaks the snow. Adjust balance. Ankle aches. Knee throbbing. Shooting pain in hip socket.

Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.

Don’t drop Robin. Don’t drop him. He’ll die. Tighten grip.

Check the mask. Still over Robin’s mouth, still working. Robin… Robin is breathing. Good. Acceptable.

Look at the sun. Look at the peaks. Ten kilometers to shelter. Ten kilometers to medical assistance. Ten is acceptable.

Hold Robin tighter, both heavy and floating. Gravity not making sense. Time not making sense. Move forward. Can’t rest. Can’t rest. Rest and Robin will die.

Foot breaks through the snow. Can’t run anymore. Ran for a long time. No more strength. Just keep walking forward. Walking is acceptable.

Check the mask. Check Robin. Still breathing. Calmer now. Asleep. Good. Sleep is acceptable.

Sun. Cliffs. Surrounding peaks. Nine point five kilometers to shelter. Acceptable.

Little bird flutters, head moving listlessly. Check him, hand to throat, hand to chest. Caressing. Assessing.  _ Stay alive, little bird, stay alive. _ Breathing, chest rising falling. Asleep again. Acceptable.

Nine kilometers. Eight kilometers.

Can’t rest. Rest and Robin will die. Bane will die. Withdrawal. No tolerance to cold anymore.

_ Such a big man. You won’t die easy will you, traitor? Hiding a girl from us. Hiding our fun. You’ll pay for that _ .

Robin flutters, light and heavy at the same time. Hold him. Hold him tight. If he falls into the snow he will be cold. Too cold. No more body heat to give him. Too cold. Empty. Empty, hollow, dying slowly. Dead man walking. Dying upright. Freezing. Blood sluggish. Venom, Venom will help. But Robin needs it, Robin needs the mask.

Check Robin. Check the mask. Check the sun. Check the cliffs.

Seven point five kilometers.

Head hurts. Feet are going numb. Arms ache.

_ Such a big man… won’t be easy to kill… such a big man… such a big… _

Robin’s hands gripping the front of his jacket. No gloves. No gloves. No…

Dangerous. Little bird’s hands, so cold. Not good. Unacceptable.

Rearrange. His gloves on Robin’s hands. Smaller hands, balled into fists.  _ He’s beautiful, even in the surveillance photos, so beautiful. Graceful. Strong. Alive. Everything, everything. _ Protect him, save his hands, his fingers. Balled up into fists, shoved inside large gloves. Jacket sleeves pulled down his arms, tugged over the gloves. Secure. Warm. 

Acceptable.

Sun. Cliffs. Seven kilometers.

Seven… seven men. Surrounding him. Face hurts. It hurts. More than ever before. Nose… broken… jaw… broken. Eyes swollen shut.

Can’t see… Can’t see where... where they are…

_ I had to save her. You would have killed her (eventually). Couldn’t allow it… _

Will never stand for this, for this corruption, this hate and disease.

_ Bane, Bane, I’m back, I’ve come for you. We will make them pay, my friend. All of them, all the men that allow such places to exist and do nothing… They will pay. _

Revolution, war, cleansing fire… peace. Children safe. Talia…

Dead. She is dead. She is beautiful, perfect… but she is wrong. She was wrong.

Bane was wrong. The innocent suffering along with the guilty… wrong. They were wrong.

Bruce… Bruce was right.  _ Almost  _ right. Was on the right path before… broken across his knee… _ Sorry, sorry… Thought we were right… The righteous path. Believed in her. In her hate. You were the victor anyway, Bruce. You won. In the end. _

Fight the injustice, protect Talia.

No, she is dead. She is dead.

Protect Robin. Little bird… heavy. Light. Floating away. Hands numb. Feet numb. Still hurts. Still hurts.

_ Such a big man… _

_ Such a big man… _

Retching. Fluid in lungs. Don’t drop Robin. Drop him and he dies. Clutch him close. Protect him from the men… the men who want to hurt him.. Who want to take him…

No. That was a little girl. Long ago. This is… Robin John Blake. Robin John Blake. Robin… Not Talia. Talia is dead. Talia was dead even before she died. Not Robin. Robin is alive, alive. Alive is acceptable. Alive is good.

Those photos, the first time he saw him, in the photos.

There was something. Not just beauty, not just strength. A warmth, a light. Fire.

So alive. So alive inside.

A compass, inside. In his heart. Bane could see it on his face, the way he looked at Bruce. That man, the man in the surveillance photo, the beautiful one, he  knew who Bruce was. No one else looked at Bruce that way. Only the ones that knew.

The old men, the butler and the inventor, their eyes too. But they were old. Good men, perhaps, but no longer able to fight. The man in the photo, the police officer, he was young and strong. And he looked so alive inside, even in smudged newsprint, blurry in the background of a photo of Bruce, and Bane knew.

_ Follow him, watch him, bring me photos, bring me his records, bring me everything on him. _

In Paris, on the run after Gotham, looking through the electronic files. Robin John Blake. He inherited the Wayne estate. Proof. Proof that he knew. That he was the one. The successor.

_ I want him, this one, this man, he is the one for our cause, he will bring balance. He is chasing us, now, chasing me, the bait is working, he is coming, drawn into the trap and I will have him. He is the next one, the new one. We will make something out of the ashes of our defeat. He will be our phoenix rising from the ashes of Gotham, the ashes of the League of Shadows, the ashes of the Wayne legacy. _

Sun. Cliffs.

So cold.

Robin… No, he likes to be called John. Not as fitting for him as Robin, the bird of spring. The little bird that returns after the winter.

Robin. John. Officer John Blake. A good man. He is a good man...

Check again. Check again and again. Touch him softly. A flutter. Then sleep. Breathing. Warm enough, please, stay warm enough, little bird of spring. Tiny, curled phoenix.

Sun. Cliffs…

How far? Six kilometers? A moment before… A moment before it was…

Seven.

Seven men.

_ Such a big man… Long time to die… _

Blood. Blood in the dark. Blood on the snow.

There is no snow in the pit. It is cold, yes, but never any snow. There is snow here. Snow with blood on it… crimson staining the white.

Broken nose? Broken jaw? Check. No… long ago… This blood… this blood is from coughing. Kneeling and coughing. Kneeling in the snow.

No. Cannot stop. John. Robin.

Still held close. Hold him closer. Why is he shaking. No, not him. Bane. Bane is shaking.

Not as cold anymore. Feeling warmer.

Get up.

_ Such a big man. _

Get up. Both will die. Robin will die.

_ Little bird, little bird, get up. _

Feet aching, arms aching. So far to go. How far?

Sun, cliffs.

Six? Five? Can’t tell…

Seven men. Seven.

_ You hid her from us… Long time to die… _

_ Bane. _

_ Such a big man. _

Hold onto the little bird, the little bird. Little bird singing at the mouth of the pit. Don’t fly down here, little bird. They will trap you if you do. Fly away. Fly.

_ Bane. _

A man. Another man. Robin is still held close. This man is separate. A different man.

_ Bane! _

Far away. It is snowing. Makes the man look like smoke. Like a dream.

Getting closer. Foot swings forward. Check on Robin. Mask. Hands, still warm in the big gloves. Still breathing.

Check the sun. The sun is not there. Everything is gray and white and torn into pieces.

Then there is a man, close, shouting. That voice… it is familiar. So familiar that it is in his bones.  _ They think that you are dead, _ he had told the man.  _ They think we are both dead, brother. _

“Brother,” the man says. “Brother, give Detective Blake to me.”

No. Protect Robin. Keep him safe. The men will take him. They will hurt him. Blood in the dark…

“Bane,” softly, barely heard over the wind. “You need to let me take him, brother.”

No. Stare the man down. Make him afraid. The only way to protect.

“You are both going to die.”

Robin will not die. Bane is protecting him.

“Bane, you are going into shock.”

More figures now. Filling up the space behind Barsad. Yes, Barsad, brother. He is alive. He was hurt, badly, but alive. Brother, Robin is hurt. Little bird is hurt.

Robin, being scooped out of his arms, the hiss of fabric on fabric loud, somehow, even in the wind. Or maybe it is the feeling of his numb arms releasing their burden, the sluggish blood trickling through his frozen veins.

Barsad marching away with Robin. Is he strong enough? Can he carry him that far?

Look around, check location. The temple is on the cliff side. So close, he was so close. He had almost carried him all the way.

Eyes tracking Barsad and Robin until they are slipping into the main door. There is medical equipment. There are generators for running the pressurized tents. For taking X-rays if necessary. They are self-sufficient. They have modernized.

Robin is safe. He is safe. He made it to the top of the pit. He is out.

Bane is left behind in the dark. Looking up, straining up. Too heavy to follow. Alone in the dark. Earthbound.

So tired. Rest. Robin is safe. Rest is acceptable.

There are hands on him, trying to move him.

_ Such a big man… _

They can do what they like to him. His little bird is safe. That’s all that matters.

He will rest now. He will sleep here, in the soft snow. Not cold anymore.

Voices shouting. Let them shout.

He will rest. For a moment. Just rest, here, for a moment.

Lying down feels so good. Shutting his eyes, at last, feels so good.

Sleep reaches for him quickly.

* * *

 

Pain. Blood on fire. He is on fire.

They beat him, but they never burned him.

Why are they burning him now?

He just wants to sleep.

The fire is inside.

Lungs hurt the worst. Fire. He is breathing fire.

Pain cresting, peaking… calming.

He is breathing. Had he stopped before?

Sweet Venom. The hiss of the serpent drug in his mind. Blessed numbness.

Unconsciousness looming.

There is something he must find… something he must ask…

No time, no time.

Darkness.

* * *

 

The mask is on.

No. Robin needs the mask. Try to pull it off, find Robin. Give it back.

A hand. A voice.

_ It’s okay, you’re both okay, Detective Blake is okay. Lie back, Bane, please relax. _

Must fight. Break free. Find Robin. Protect Robin.

Needle in the arm.

Darkness.

* * *

 

The next time he emerges from unconsciousness, Bane is able to recognize his surroundings. He is in a room in the temple, the same room he had used before, the last time he was here. Everything was the same, even the pattern of snow on the window pane looked like it had the last time he was here, talking with Talia about her grand vision for Gotham.

It felt like decades ago, in another life.

Barsad was there, sitting next to his bed, perched in his chair like a watchful nurse, brows furrowed. Robin was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, his arms braced over his chest, defiant. Safe. His brows knit together and his forehead wrinkled up. An expression Bane had become very familiar with since he woke on the plane. Something intangible unwound at Bane’s core, something vital that began to burn with life again, with the old zeal.

“John,” Bane said. This mask was different. Lighter. It distorted his voice, but not as badly as the old one. He had tasked them to work on this new mask for him, once, long ago when he was foolish enough to believe that he and Talia may have walked away from Gotham. He shifted his jaw, the scars pulling at his flesh, numbed by Venom but ever-present.

Robin narrowed his eyes at him. Angry.  _ Oh, little bird, so much life. _ Robin shifted in his chair and turned his glare away from Bane, staring pointedly out the window. Bane felt his mouth pressing oddly against the interior of the mask, the simple act of smiling still foreign to him.

“Barsad,” he said, instead of the many things that had crowded into his mind to say to Robin. His brother turned his soulful eyes to him, those strange eyes, both full and vacant at the same time. Deceptive, covering the intelligence of the man to those who did not know him well. “Report.”

Bane was attentive as Barsad spoke. He used English, as a courtesy to their guest, though Robin was pretending not to listen to them. Barsad outlined Robin’s medical issues and treatments first, beginning with when they had brought him inside and taken him to the infirmary.

Although Robin had been suffering from acute pulmonary edema, brought on by the altitude and exacerbated by going untreated for days, there was no lasting damage. He had been treated in a pressurized tent and given fluids overnight. They had worried for two of his toes on his right foot when they had first assessed him, but after treatment for the beginnings of frostbite, the tissue took no lasting harm.

Bane’s breath caught in his chest for a moment. Robin could have lost his toes. His fingers.

He could have died.

But he was whole, healthy. He was sitting there, scowling at them, very much himself.

Barsad reported that he had been eating normally - Robin huffed in his corner, obviously hating being talked about as if he wasn’t there - and he had slept overnight.

“He is in excellent health,” Barsad summed up, pressing a hand to Bane’s forearm in reassurance. From across the room, Robin’s eyes snapped to Barsad’s hand, before looking away with a scowl and another restless movement on his wooden chair. Bane lifted a hand, the one not hooked up to the IV drip, and beckoned for Robin to come to him. Robin’s face suffused with color, but he scoffed and didn’t move from his seat.

“You, on the other hand, brother,” Barsad sighed, looking between Robin and Bane for a moment before turning his heavy-lidded gaze on Bane, “almost died right outside the gate.”

Bane shrugged. “Robin needed the mask more than I did.”

“That is debatable.”

“I do not regret my actions.” Both Robin and Barsad glared daggers at him. He beckoned to Robin again, and again was snubbed. Bane checked briefly to make sure that the mask was secure, then yanked the IV needle from his hand and stood up. He was dressed in loose cotton pants but wore no other clothing, his feet bare on the wooden floor.

Barsad tried to get him to stay in the bed, but Bane held out one hand to keep him at bay as he strode purposefully toward Robin. The cop’s face drained of color, his dark eyes wide as Bane came to him. He stumbled out of his chair and held up his arms as if he could fend Bane off. Robin’s eyes flicked around the room, assessing all the different threats before resting on Bane, visibly trying to scrape together a plan of escape.

Bane reached for him, cupping the side of his head in one palm, Robin’s skull resting there perfectly. Robin flinched away from him, but Bane grabbed his upper arm and stilled him effectively, leaning in close to look into Robin’s eyes and examine his face.

“What are you doing?” Robin asked, his voice no more than a raspy whisper.

“Examining you,” Bane replied. He pushed his thumb carefully under Robin’s jaw so that he could maneuver his head and study every detail. One of Robin’s hands wrapped around the digit, trying to pull it away. Bane finished looking him over and then let him pry his hand away from his face. Robin clutched at it like he was afraid it would spring back to his throat the moment he let it go.

They looked at each other for several long moments. Bane watched the inner war going on in the detective’s eyes, the very same as when he’d startled him in the house outside of Kiev. He was battling the instinct of any living thing to flee from a potential threat, to escape with his life. Yet, he wanted to be brave, to do the right thing. He was also, Bane thought, Bane  _ hoped, _ perhaps a little bit intrigued about the monster that held him captive.

_ Sweet boy, _ Bane mused, unable to resist petting him a bit, smoothing his rough hand over Robin’s unruly hair. His thumb traced down to Robin’s jaw once again, then trailed over to his mouth, gently pressing his bottom lip. Robin was no longer struggling to get away. He was blinking hard, trying to focus, staring up into Bane’s eyes, his pupils widening.

_ Yes, _ Bane thought.  _ Yes. There you are. _ But he forced himself to step back, to let Robin get his bearings once again. Barsad tactfully cleared his throat as Bane smoothed down Robin’s clothing.

“The mask uses vapor but it also has injection sites,” Bane said, gesturing to his own face and then to Robin’s. “Small needles on the underside of the jaw. A few near the mouth and nose.”

What he didn’t mention was the fact that simply inhaling Venom was no longer enough for him, that he needed a dose directly into his bloodstream as quickly as possible when he’d been without the mask for any length of time. He had been concerned that the injections may have irritated Robin’s skin, which was more delicate than his own.

“He is fine, brother,” Barsad reassured, casting Robin an inscrutable look as he passed them on the way out, wheeling the unwanted IV with him. Pausing at the door, he turned and spoke to Bane in their own language. “The training has already started with the others. He is behind, but I know you will be the one overseeing his progress, so I have no doubt he will be surpassing the others soon.” Barsad’s naturally forlorn face grew sadder still. “Do you really plan to go with him? Back to that viper’s nest of a city?”

Bane nodded once, pulling Robin to him and wrapping an arm around his squirming form, stilling him. Robin made an annoyed face and moved as if to pull away, though he gave up quickly and slumped against Bane’s side. Bane rumbled approvingly before turning his attention back to Barsad, Robin’s watchful eyes on both of them, trying to make out what they were saying.

“I will go with him,” Bane confirmed. “He will need me, though he doesn’t know that yet. There is time, brother. We have much training to do before he can return and take up the legacy left to him.”

Barsad nodded gravely. “I will be at your side in this, as in all things, as much as I am able. The training begins tomorrow. He is recovered enough, and we will start slow.”

The door clicked shut behind Barsad, and Bane turned to Robin, who went from pliant and curious to rigid as he realized they were alone. He took a step back from Bane and glared up at him.

“Alright, you got us here,” Robin rasped. The sound made Bane want to check him again for injury or illness. He instinctively put a hand out towards Robin’s chest, as he had done dozens of times when he was in his arms, fighting for breath.

_ Check him. _

Robin swatted his hand away in frustration and Bane let it drop to his side. He tilted his head slightly, waiting for Robin to continue.

“So now what?” Robin asked, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. “Are you going to keep me as a hostage? As blackmail? Are you going to try and ransom me? Or maybe you think it’d be more useful to torture me until I, what? Give you the security combination to the Bat Cave?”

“John,” Bane said, reaching for him again. Robin’s face went from cold to angry in a heartbeat. He raised a fist, bringing it down in the middle of Bane’s chest.

“Fuuuuck.” Robin shook his hand, gritting his teeth and giving Bane’s chest an offended look.

“Are you hurt?” Bane reached out again to touch him, and again Robin turned away from him.

_ “No,” _ he said angrily. “And you don’t fucking get to  _ coddle _ me right now, you fucking asshole!” Robin made a face as soon as he’d said it, like he wanted to take the words back. But then his eyebrows furrowed as he directed his gaze levelly at Bane’s exposed chest. “You almost died, Bane,” he finally said.

“You were worried about me.” Bane felt a smile spread across his face behind the mask.

“No!” Robin exclaimed too quickly. “It’s just… what if your goons had decided to smother me with a pillow once they realized you weren’t around to, ah, to…”

“Protect you?”

Robin shrugged, turning his body at an angle to Bane. It was the closest he ever got to hiding from him.

“They wouldn’t have harmed you, John. Even if they left me frozen in the snow outside the gate. You are important to our cause.”

“Batman is important to your cause,” Robin corrected. “And I inherited his estate. You don’t have to pretend that I’m what you actually- that I’m what the League wants. But you’re crazy if you think I’m just going to hand the property over to you. Bruce left it to  _ me.” _

Robin’s eyes were blazing, the hurt and determination shining there. Bane remained speechless for a moment, admiring. They had chosen well, both he and Bruce. Robin was a perfect successor to the Batman. He was the perfect choice for the League.

“I do not see the Wayne estate when I look at you, John,” Bane assured him, taking a step closer.

Robin took a step back, his eyes growing wide as Bane neared. “No? You don’t care at all, I suppose, that I’m now worth billions? That I own a state-of-the-art arsenal? I guess the League hasn’t spared a single thought to the city-wide surveillance Bruce installed, all feeding live to the Batcave monitoring station. No, what could you possibly do with that? It must be the overworked, average cop that you’re really after,” Robin mocked, rolling his eyes. “I’m obviously able to take on all of the Gotham’s wide-spread corruption by myself. Just hand me a party mask and I’ll be on my way.”

Robin stopped talking when his back hit the wall. He was still glaring at Bane, but his throat flashed as he swallowed. “You could sign away all of Bruce’s possessions today, and I would still want you,” Bane assured him. He pressed close, his bare skin, knotted and scared in places, resting against the soft cotton of Robin’s T-shirt. He felt the warmth bloom between them, all down the front of his body in the cold room.

Robin shivered, but remained in place, even when Bane placed his hands on the wall on either side of his head. “Is it you… or the League… that wants me?” he asked, eyes locked onto Bane’s.

Bane shrugged. “It is the same thing.” Robin stared up at him doubtfully. Switching to his native tongue, Bane added, “We are both yours.” Robin scrunched up his forehead, uncomprehending. Maybe Bane would teach him some of his language. At least enough speak endearments to him in the heat of passion. Again, Bane found his mouth pulling up in small smile. Robin was looking at his face, perhaps noticing the lines at the corners of Bane’s eyes. The detective shifted in the cage of Bane’s arms, looking apprehensive.

“You didn’t die,” Robin said.

“No, I did not.”

Robin gave a tiny shrug, lifting and dropping his shoulders quickly. “I guess that’s… okay.” His fingers were fiddling with the edge of his shirt, tugging at the fabric anxiously. Bane could feel it shifting against his stomach. Then, like a brand, Robin’s fingers trailed up Bane’s flank. Robin’s eyes had drifted downward, taking in the skin that was visible. Bane’s throat and shoulders. His upper chest and arms. There was nothing Bane could do to hide the ugly scars from him. He would either accept them or push him away in disgust.

A moment later, John’s dark eyes turned back up to his, an open, dark look on his face. Wanting. Bane stopped breathing. No one had ever looked at him like that. Fear or disgust were the only two strong emotions ever directed his way. That this man could be looking up at him like that, trusting him like that…

Bane’s hands scrabbled the few inches along the wooden wall to take gentle hold of Robin’s skull. His hair was both soft and a little coarse, a texture that the thick skin of Bane’s fingers could detect and appreciate. He cradled Robin’s jaw for a moment, his dark eyes blowing out, deep and wet.

Bane removed a hand from his boy just long enough to get the mask pulled down around his neck, before leaning down to devour his mouth. He wondered for a moment, as John’s mouth opened for him, if he tasted of Venom, and what John thought of the flavor now that he, too, had worn the mask.

Robin didn’t seem to mind, pushing his body up and into Bane’s, his hands resting on his biceps, pulling his bulk forward to rest more solidly against him as he let Bane delve into his mouth. Bane struggled to stay in the present, to stay in control. If Robin went under again, pliant and beautiful beneath his hands, it would be left to Bane to stay in charge of both their bodies. He could feel how easily the delicate skull in his hands could be crushed, the slim bones of his wrists snapped, the long line of his throat severed. He pulled Robin to him, wishing to protect such a fragile being.

When he had first learned of Robin John Blake and began to get a feeling for who the man was, this one man who’d won Bruce Wayne’s trust, he knew that without proper intervention, his life would be short. Glorious, perhaps, but short. Robin needed someone to pull him back from the edge when he walked too close. Someone who would then help him vent those feelings of frustration in a very physical way.

Learning of Robin’s desire to submit in sexual situations was no surprise to him. He had hoped, even then, that they could have this, that John would learn to let Bane bend him to his will in private, as Bane would become whatever Robin needed in any other aspect of their lives.

He had not expected Robin to fall into subspace their very first time together. It had been a gift, a revelation. Something in John had responded to Bane on a primal level, giving itself over to him, even as Robin himself had visibly struggled to keep it at bay.

That was why Bane had pushed for more, unable to resist making Robin fall apart, greedy for that sweet pliancy. For the lost look in his dark eyes, damp mouth open, coming so perfectly apart at the seams.

He had meant just to lure him close enough to inject him, to force him to sleep through the transfer to the private jet, knowing that John would have fought to the point of injuring himself if he’d been awake. Then, in flight, they had received word that their usual runway was being watched, and they had no choice but to use the high-pass landing field and then hike through the mountains rather than being brought most of the way by helicopter.

Bane had bargained their lives on Robin being able to take the altitude. But, as Bane knew well, mountain illness was fickle and struck indiscriminately, no matter how strong the person afflicted. He thought of Robin gasping for breath, his lips turning blue and his eyes going blank-

He held Robin closer, groaned into the kiss, feeling John’s freshly shaved skin against his own scruff. Pulling back, Bane reluctantly replaced the mask, Venom circulating back through his system before he could feel the pain set in.

Robin was leaning back against the wall, his head tipped up, gazing at Bane with such reverence, it made an ache rend its way through Bane’s chest. He did not deserve this. He did not deserve this man’s trust. But he was going to take it. He felt in his bones that he would die without this man. So he was going to make sure he stayed. That he had every reason to stay.

He slid one hand to Robin’s throat and the other between his legs. Robin threw his head to the side as he dug his nails into Bane’s arms. Bane tugged at him through his pants, massaging Robin’s erection until he was moaning and shifting into Bane’s palm.

“John… Robin,” Bane said, the mask next to his ear. Robin moaned at the sound of his first name, his eyes slipping closed, hiding his face against Bane’s bare shoulder. Not for the first time, he wished he could catch Robin’s scent through the mask. He wished he could kiss his skin, taste the salt. But he had to content himself with his hands, with pawing at Robin with his rough fingers.

He felt Robin’s hot mouth at his neck, kissing him, licking at him, and all at once the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Even in all his fantasies, it was always Bane that gave the pleasure. It would be Bane to take Robin under and bring him back. To wring climax after climax out of him, leave him sated and pliant. Then, maybe, Bane would be allowed to pull his relaxed body towards himself, to hold him for a few minutes. Lift the mask up and smell his sweaty skin and run his scared lips over Robin’s damp hair.

That’s the role he had imagined for himself:  A support. A mentor. A servant. He had never dared hope that they would ever have something close to a partnership in the true sense of the word. He had never allowed himself to believe his desire would be returned.

Robin’s hands found the back of his head, running over his shaved scalp, slightly prickly after a week without grooming. He angled Bane’s skull up slightly so he could get his mouth on Bane’s throat, his breathing ragged as he kissed and nipped at him.

“Bane,” Robin gasped, Bane’s thick fingers still working between his legs. “Bane!” He pulled on Bane’s head again, enough so that he could reach his ear, his tongue lapping at him as he moaned. Bane took a few deep breaths before pulling the mask back around his throat so that he could kiss Robin again. He moaned into Bane’s mouth, has hands wandering all over his exposed face. “Take me to bed. Please.”

In one swift movement, Bane had a firm grip on Robin’s upper arms and had spun him around, pressing him back onto the bed. He went to work stripping the man of his loose clothing, kneeling over him once he was naked, one leg on either side of Robin’s hips. With his mask back in place, he wasn’t able to lean down and take Robin into his mouth the way he wanted, so he contented himself with running his calloused palms all over him, scraping lightly at his nipples.

Robin cried out and flexed up into Bane’s touch. Bane grabbed Robin’s wrists, transferring them into one hand so he could continue touching him with the other. He stretched Robin’s arms above the boy’s head, pulling him out, long and lean, his rib cage rising and falling with his desperate panting.

“I want to see you,” Robin pleaded. “Bane, let me see you. Please.” Bane ignored his request, sliding his hand once more between Robin’s thighs. He ran a thumb pad over Robin’s slit, tugging it further open as his fingers worked out the generously leaking precome, swiping it over the smooth head. Around and around. Slit. Precome. Swirling the head, the glans. Over and over.

Robin’s cries of  _ Bane Bane Bane _ finally went sub-vocal, his body shaking apart on the edge of orgasm. Bane held it back from him, returning to just barely brushing his slit when he got too close, before working over the sensitive glans one again, bringing him back to the edge.

Bane leaned over him, enveloping his slight body with his large, warm one. Not quite touching, leaving room for his hand to keep working him. He let go of Robin’s wrists, letting his hands lie limply on the pillow, not moving from where Bane had maneuvered him.

He slipped the mask down for the third time, licking into Robin’s mouth at the same time as he took Robin’s entire cockhead into the ring of his fingers, twisting so that he hit all the over-sensitized nerves he’d been teasing. Robin went still under him. Bane pulled back so he could see his face. Robin was looking up at him, his eyes blown black, his eyebrows pulled into a puzzled frown. As Bane watched, Robin’s mouth dropped open and his eyes rolled back as he came, shuddering as his orgasm drew out, incredibly long from the edging. He didn’t fill Bane’s palm all at one, but slowly pulsed over his fingers, trembling the whole time, every inch of skin broken out into a sheen with the exertion.

“Beautiful,” Bane praised, in awe. He captured a few more panting kisses from Robin’s slack mouth, before securing the mask and gently cleaning him up. Robin was still deep under and shivering, so Bane lay next to him on the bed, pulling him close until he settled against his chest, ragdoll limp.

Bane stroked through Robin’s hair, thinking of the time to come. Of the explanations and the training, the planning and the return to Gotham. Strategies for remaining anonymous among the people he’d terrorized but now planned to protect. For Bruce. For Robin. For the little girl Talia used to be. For the boy he had once been, alone in the darkness, dreaming of a better life.

But for now he would hold tight to his little bird and fall asleep at the top of the world, the pit left far behind.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](https://mothdustmouth.tumblr.com/)


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